Sunday Stew: A Cynic’s Song

I’m asked what I’m hopeful for What pushes me from the womb of my bed What keeps me warm and tethered in the storm outsideI shrug in my apathy my skeptic my permanent side-eye to a world not yet healedI scowl at the screeching of headlines and alt facts and every gullible headless bruteThey’re blinking at me expectantly I’m likely glaring at them accusatoriallyLately my way of hope is just a cynic’s songA bitter remembrance A necessary salve we spreadBefore we can even dream of sleeping